We Wish You a Merry Murder
by cjnwriter
Summary: The 2017 edition of Hades Lord of the Dead's December Calendar Challenge. Prepare yourself for mystery, murder, and a cup of good cheer! I'm going to try to write all 221b-style drabbles (221 words with the last word beginning with "b") for my responses this year, so we'll if I manage it!
1. A Detective in King Lestrade's Court

**December 1: "Write an interpretation of Sherlock Holmes set in any era other than modern or Victorian." (from Hades Lord of the Dead)**

* * *

The chief adviser frowned as he watched King Lestrade pace the width of the great hall. They had received reports of the brutal killing of six peasants and had sent men to collect suspects and witnesses. The hall door swung open and two knights marched in, dragging a peasant between them. He was dirty, tall and speaking rapidly.

"…and for the last time, I'm not guessing and I'm not a sorcerer, but I know what happened! If you would just—"

The two unceremoniously dropped the man before Lestrade's throne and the adviser winced in sympathy.

"My lord," said Sir Gregson, the senior of the two. "This peasant claims to know who killed those lads, despite his being far out of sight of it. I suspect witchcraft."

"Respectfully, I disagree," interrupted Sir Hopkins. "He was able to tell a good deal more about us than he ought to have, but once he told us how he knew it, it all seemed so simple!"

Lestrade frowned, pinched the bridge of his nose, and shook his head. He turned to his chief adviser. "Watson, what do you think?"

Watson did not quite know why, but something about the peasant's keen eyes made him think there may be something to Sir Hopkins' idea. "Let us hear what he has to say."

King Lestrade nodded. "Begin."


	2. Cards with the Colonel

**December 2: "A dangerous visitor." (from Book girl fan)**

 **A/N: This doesn't _really_ fit into the canon chronologically, but it was too intriguing an idea to pass it by.**

* * *

It had been raining for three days and Holmes had been bored for four. It was beginning to seem as though the streets would soon flood, leaving the flat at Baker Street a forsaken island.

"You seem to be in a rather melancholy mood this morning," said Watson as he entered the sitting room. "Perhaps you shouldn't have dismissed those last three clients out of hand. Would you care for some coffee?"

Holmes groaned and rolled over on the settee. "No, no thank you."

Watson shrugged. "Well, suit yourself, old fellow." He poured himself a cup. "I've invited a few friends to play cards with us this afternoon. Or with me, at least, if you're still intent on moping about."

The detective quirked an eyebrow. "Which friends?"

"Oh, Thurston and a few of his associates, and a few of their associates. None are perfect strangers to me, but I don't know them all too well yet." Watson snatched a piece of paper from his desk. "Here's a list, if you'd like to know."

Holmes took the list from his flatmate and scanned it quickly. He paused near the bottom and smiled.

 _Sebastian Moran_

Perhaps today would not be so dreary as Holmes had first thought. If his suspicions were correct, this afternoon would be more profitable than Watson's usual weekly billiards.


	3. Cocaine, PTSD, and a Patriotic VR

**December 3: " During the early days of their friendship, Holmes witnesses the first setback in Watson's recovery from his war experiences..." (from Hades Lord of the Dead)**

* * *

It was eight in the morning and I was injecting cocaine for the second time today.

I'd awoken at four and been unable to sleep again. Perhaps cocaine would help me channel my racing brain, I had thought. It had, for a short while, but now I needed more. I felt it washing over me now; ah, that was better already.

My mind wandered from the dearth of cases coming my way to the state of the country to the Queen herself. A strong sense of patriotism washed over me, and I snatched up my pistol. The letters "V.R." would look just perfect there on the opposite wall.

I raised the gun and fired six shots before a heard a yell from upstairs. I frowned, then with a pang, realized Watson had not yet come downstairs. I must have awoken the poor chap.

He came dashing down the stairs and came to a sudden halt, panting. He looked from me to the wall and back again, sighed, and mopped his brow.

"Apologies," I muttered.

"It's fine," he said shakily. "For a second, it was Maiwand all over again…"

I felt a dull pang of guilt.

Watson gripped the back of the settee for support. I was struck by now pale he appeared beneath his tan. "I'll just head back to bed."


	4. Poisonous Plants are Not Festive

**December 4: "Green." (from Book girl fan)**

* * *

It was nearly Christmas in London, but if all one had as a reference point was the sitting room at 221b, it would have been impossible to tell. This dismayed the doctor and the landlady, but that was just the way Sherlock Holmes liked it.

"For the last time, Mrs. Hudson," said Holmes through gritted teeth. "I do not want a blasted tree in my sitting room!"

The long-suffering woman set a plate of toast before Watson. "Not even a small one?" she insisted."Or a wreath? You can't object to a wreath."

"I can and I will," replied Holmes, glaring at her over The Times.

"Scrooge," Watson coughed.

He scowled at Watson, who gave an innocent shrug.

"We need something decorative, a little greenery," said Mrs. Hudson.

"I have plants," said Holmes. "But you two wished me to keep them in my room."

"Poisonous plants are not festive, dear."

"But I like poisonous plants," Holmes replied.

Watson smiled to himself. An idea had struck him, but he would say nothing of it until he had carried it out.

That afternoon, Holmes returned from his most recent investigation to see a dozen sprigs of mistletoe hanging at intervals along the mantle.

"What is the meaning of this?" he growled.

"I thought you liked poisonous plants," said Watson. He grinned boldly.


	5. Peculiar Origins of the Persian Slipper

**December 5: "Lost in translation." (from I'm Nova)**

* * *

Since I was already going shopping for Christmas gifts, and I'd put Holmes in a bit of an ill humor the previous afternoon, I offered to fetch anything he might need for his latest case while I was out. Holmes had seemed grateful enough, at least until I returned.

"What is the meaning of this?" asked Holmes irritably. He held aloft a pair of Persian slippers.

I snatched the list he had given me from my jacket pocket and pointed to the item on the list. "It's right there."

Holmes sighed and rolled his eyes. "Pewter dippers. For my chemistry experiments."

"It's no fault of mine that your handwriting is so atrocious," I replied.

Holmes sighed. "You could have come back here and asked me what it said."

I shrugged. Persian slippers had seemed an odd request, but I'd decided not to question it; he did often make odd requests, after all, and I imagined he was looking to add a more Eastern disguise to his repertoire.

My friend chuckled suddenly and snatched up one of the shoes.

"What is it?" I asked.

"I realized I do have a use for use for this after all." Holmes crossed the sitting room in three strides and snatched a pouch of shag tobacco and stuffed it into the toe end of the slipper.


	6. Sussex by Starlight

**December 6: "Starlight" (from Wordweilder)**

 **Holmes' POV, post-retirement era**

* * *

There were many things I liked about London: the excitement of new cases, the bustling streets, the flat at Baker Street, and perhaps most of all, living alongside my dear friend Watson. But there were things I did not much enjoy. The stench of unwashed bodies and horse dung in the streets, all the impoverished souls I could do little to help, the sewage in the Thames, and the thick, pea-soup fogs... I had learned to endure it all without complaint, but now that I was nicely settled in Sussex where I no longer had to, it was a relief.

There was one thing I lost while in London which I did not notice until I left it: the multitude of stars visible in the countryside but not in the city. Perhaps it had worsened during the advent of electricity, but there are so few to be seen in the sky in London and so many here. Even tonight, when it was cold and moonless, the stars shone brightly enough to walk without a light, reflecting patches of ice and setting the snowbanks glowing by the dark path.

I stood quiet and motionless for a time, wondering how Watson would put this scene into words. I did not have his skill for poetic description, but still, I appreciated the beauty.


	7. Mrs Hudson, Detective

**December 7: "Lost in London" (from** **mrspencil)**

* * *

The little boy was too small to see where his mother had gone in the crowd of Christmas shoppers. He looked around and saw a green skirt. He ran towards it and tugged on it.

"Ma!" he called. But the woman who looked down on him in confusion was not his mother. Frightened indeed, now, he burst into tears.

"Oh dear," said the woman. "You've lost your mother, have you?"

He nodded, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"I'll help you find her," said the woman. The boy did not know it, but she was no ordinary woman. She was Mrs. Hudson, landlady to the most brilliant detective in London.

Now, Mrs. Hudson knew enough about children to suspect the lad had picked her out of the crowd because she looked somewhat like his mother from behind. She was looking for a woman of average height, then, and dressed in green. Likely dark-haired, too, like the boy.

She stood on tiptoe and scanned the crowd. There was a woman of that description by a display of toy trains, perhaps ten paces away. Mrs. Hudson took the boy by the hand and made her way through the crowd.

"Ma!" cried the little boy. This time, he was right.

"Thank you so much," said the mother.

"My pleasure." Mrs. Hudson smiled brightly.


	8. The Landlady's Always Right

**December 8: "Red ribbon" (from Wordweilder)**

* * *

"Watson, what is this?" asked Holmes.

I glanced up from the yellow-backed novel I was reading to see Holmes towering over me, a spool of red twine in his hands.

"That's red twine," I replied. "Surely, you did not need my help to—"

Holmes gave a sigh of disgust and waved me off. "Never mind," he said. "It is of no import." He set the twine upon his desk and began to pace the length of the room.

Now I truly was curious. "Even so, I should like to know why you asked."

He continued to pace. I watched for a time, then returned to my book.

"I had an argument with Mrs. Hudson about it," he said. "I may have utilized a substantive portion of her ribbon during the process of my last investigation, and I tried to replace it, but I seem to have been unsuccessful."

I shrugged. "I don't know what she uses it for, but there is a difference between ribbon and twine."

Holmes grumbled something that included the words "brain-attic" and "nonsense".

"Next time, old chap, you could try using your own things instead of our landlady's," I said, fighting back a smile.

"Next time," Holmes replied with a grin. "I'll be sure I've gotten the right thing by asking _you_ before I buy."


	9. The Maid is Not Yet Prepared

**December 9: "Mrs. Hudson instructs the new maid." (from I'm Nova)**

 **A/N: This prompt gave me a fun chance to see anew how weird life at 221b really is…**

* * *

"Now I don't wish to frighten you, dear," began my prospective employer, "but my lodgers are a little peculiar."

"Oh?" I was seated across the kitchen table from Mrs. Hudson, having responded to an advertisement in last week's paper. I now did my best to keep my expression calm and tone even. My ma had warned me not find work under the "wrong sort" of people. Baker Street was a fashionable place to work, I'd been told, but maybe this was not such a good idea after all…

"Mr. Holmes likes keeping things ordered in his own particular and unconventional way. Cigars in the coal scuttle, tobacco in a fancy Eastern slipper… Both gentlemen smoke too much for my lungs at times."

Well, that didn't sound so bad. A tad strange, but I could handle strange.

"They take on a wide variety of visitors," Mrs. Hudson continued. "And not all of a reputable sort, but we have had more than one member of Europe's royal families come to call too. Mr. Holmes also has a troupe of little street urchins who assist him on cases. He's a detective, you see," she added, as if that explained it. "They tend to track in dirt and dust, but most of the lads are sweet as can be, so don't worry about those boys."


	10. This Calls For a Brandy

**December 10: "Bribery." (from Wordweilder)**

 **A/N: Inspired not-so-subtly by BBC's Sherlock.**

* * *

"The gall!" scoffed Watson as he entered the sitting room.

Holmes continued his chemical analysis, but watched his friend peripherally, waiting for him to continue.

"A fellow from the newspaper asked if he could interview me about you, and I obliged him." Watson stretched and rubbed his hands together before the fire. "That was all fine and good, and he seemed a decent fellow, but after he asked a half dozen questions, he offered to pay me to give him 'an inside view of Baker Street on a regular basis'. Tantamount to spying on a friend and fellow-lodger for money." He stepped toward the sideboard and poured himself a little liquor. "Journalists these days, I tell you." He shook his head with vigor.

There was silence for a moment.

"Well, what say you, Holmes?" Watson asked, and took a sip of his drink.

The detective, at last, looked up from his chemical equipment. "I say it's a pity you didn't accept his offer. We could've split the fee."

Watson choked and set about a fit of coughing. "What the devil?" he gasped, when he was able once more to breathe.

Holmes chuckled. "Sorry, old fellow. But it might prove a helpful tool for spreading misinformation."

"I suppose it would be." Watson sighed and shook his head. "I need more brandy."


	11. Murder!

**December 11: "Dagger of stars" (from Winter Winks 221)**

 **I titled this series "We Wish You a Merry Murder" and by day ten, no bodies had turned up! At last the tide had turned…**

 **Warning and apology in advance for less care with historical accuracy than usual.**

* * *

"It is a peculiar weapon," said Lestrade, picking up the item gingerly and handing it to Holmes.

Holmes and I were with him in Scotland Yard's evidence warehouse. A recent murder had taken place which had called strongly to Holmes' mind a similar case almost precisely fifty years prior. The circumstances were nearly identical: the body of a middle-aged man was found in a room which was unlocked with a single chair barricading the door, all windows were shut and bolted, and body itself was lying supine, arms above his head and an intricately carved dagger in his heart. There were no signs of a struggle.

"It is the pattern on the handle which interests me most," said Holmes, running his gloved finger over the intricate pattern of seven bright, eight-pointed stars carved into the handle, their white paint contrasting sharply with the dark varnish. "I don't suppose the Yard has the weapon from so far back on hand?"

Lestrade frowned. "I'm afraid not, but I think we have reports from then."

Holmes waved him off. "I've read them already?"

Our friend the Inspector was a little taken aback. I decided it was better to change the subject than let Lestrade wonder too long if Holmes had broken into Scotland Yard before. (He had.) "Might I inspect the body?"


	12. A Bit of Cat Hair

**December 12: "Mrs. Hudson gets a cat." (from Wordweilder)**

 **A/N** : **Thank you so much to all of you who've read and left reviews! My studies haven't left me enough time to reply to each one of them individually, but I'm very grateful for every single one. You guys rock!**

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson!" Holmes' shout reverberated through all three floors of the building.

The long-suffering woman sighed, rolled her eyes, bustled up the stairs to the sitting room and continued to his bedroom.

"There you are," said the detective coldly.

"You only just called," she sniffed.

He waved her off, and produced a pair of black trousers with a smattering little orange hairs near the ankles. "What is the meaning of this?"

Of course. His fastidiousness would not allow for a few stray hairs on a few pairs of trousers that would only need a quick brushing off. But, she supposed, the creature was not supposed to get into his room at all, so she could not say much after all.

"Just a bit of cat hair," Mrs. Hudson replied. "I'll have it off in no time."

"Good," he said, handing her the trousers and a variety of other articles.

Perhaps if he did not store them on his floor…

"But what concerns me more is the thing being in here at all." His thin lips compressed into a line.

"It won't happen again," she said. "I'll keep her from wandering upstairs."

"Good," he said again.

Well, at least now she knew something that would drive him batty if he was ever too late paying her for room and board…


	13. Deck the Morgue?

**December 13: "Mistletoe in the morgue." (from Winter Winks 221)**

* * *

Lestrade sighed, mopped his brow with a handkerchief, and leaned against the wall. He looked to Holmes, who was fighting to hold in an all-too-familiar impish smile. Watson stood between the two, apparently neutral for the moment.

"This is your doing, Holmes!" said the Scotland Yard detective.

Holmes only shrugged. "It may have been my idea, but I had a few eager helpers."

Lestrade gestured wildly. "But who decorates a morgue for Christmas? Or any holiday for that matter?"

The plain, white-walled room now sported a wreath on each wall, garland strewed every which way, several sprigs of holly, mistletoe above the doorway, six poinsettias, and an eight-foot tree complete with lit candles. Lestrade half expected to find a partridge in a pear tree.

"When on earth did you even do this?" he asked.

"Last night," Holmes replied.

"I give up," said Lestrade, throwing up his hands.

A grin spread across Watson's face. "Merry Christmas, Inspector."

Lestrade appeared to be on the point of saying something very rude indeed when he paused, looked around again, and began to laugh. "Well," he said, "I suppose there was no serious harm done. But you two are in charge of cleaning this up on Boxing Day."

Holmes grinned. "We couldn't possibly take them down until Epiphany."

Lestrade's knees nearly buckled.


	14. Mary Didn't Die

**December 14: "The author's favourite AU." (from I'm Nova)**

 **A/N: C** **rayons weren't invented till 1903, but I figured it was close enough.**

* * *

"Sherlock! What have I told you about throwing Anna's things on the fire?" Mary Watson exclaimed, raising her voice over the sound of Anna's wails.

The boy started and dropped the crayons in his hand on the floor. "I just wanted to see what would happen!"

"Shh, Anna," said Mary. The little girl quieted a little, and she turned to her son. "Not the right answer, dear."

It was at this moment that there was a ring at the bell. She gave Sherlock another stern look, lifted her daughter into her arms, and made for the door.

Sherlock Holmes stood on the other side.

Anna squirmed and held her arms out to Holmes. "Uncle Ho'mes!" she cried.

A smile flashed across the detective's thin face. "Hello, Mrs. Watson," he said. "Your husband invited me to dinner, if it's all right with you, of course."

"Yes, of course," she replied, waving him inside and handing Anna to him. "John told me he invited you. He's been running a little late from his practice these past weeks—nasty strain of influenza, he tells me—but I'm sure he'll be back shortly."

"Wonderful," replied Holmes, following Mary into the sitting room as Anna snuggled in his arms.

Mary smiled to herself at the ridiculous notion that Sherlock Holmes was no heart and all brain.

* * *

 **A/N: So yes, Mary not dying, and the Watson's naming a kid after Holmes, and Holmes really warming up to Mary and the children post-Reichenbach is my favourite AU. (I'm not crying, you're crying!)**


	15. Scotland Yard Gift Exchange

***Slides into the frame Breakfast Club-style, papers and miscellany flying out of my arms* I'm back!**

 **December 15: "The worst Secret Santa." (from Book girl fan)**

* * *

Every year, Scotland Yard hosted a staff Christmas party. It was the best day in December: there was always plenty of food, drink, and a friendly exchange of gifts near the end of the evening. Like every year, Lestrade was looking eagerly forward to it with eager anticipation by mid-November. But that changed when it came time to draw names for the gift exchange.

"Your turn, Inspector," said Hopkins, holding out the hat to Lestrade. The detective rummaged his hand around it and drew out a slip of paper.

Tobias Gregson, he read. Wonderful.

"Thank you, Hopkins," said Lestrade with a heavy sigh. Gregson had drawn his name two years previous and given him the ugliest butter dish Lestrade had ever seen. Lestrade was lactose intolerant.

Perhaps it was time to repay him in kind. But how? Lestrade went where he always did when faced with an inscrutable mystery: Baker Street.

Holmes was out, but the good Doctor greeted him warmly. Lestrade decided to ask his advice in lieu of Holmes.

When he had finished, Watson smiled and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Perhaps you could try forgetting all that for one evening and give the man something nice."

Lestrade sighed and nodded. "I suppose you're right, Doctor. I'll have my wife put together a nice plate of biscuits."


	16. He Arrested Whom?

**December 16: "An unexpected twist." (from mrspencil)**

 **A/N: Shoutout to Jacob from my university, who told me about this disturbing phenomenon…**

* * *

Our young client dashed away a stream of tears with the sleeves of her shabby black dress as she continued her narrative. "My father, 'e was a good man, but not the best with money, and 'e dug himself too deep with gambling, I think. But 'e turned himself around and manged to pay off all the creditors but Mr. Williams. Mr. Williams 'ad been demanding his money for months, but Dad barely 'ad enough for rent and little enough for food, so we didn't answer the door if it was 'im. Then Dad got pneumonia, and 'e—he didn't make it. The debts were the last thing on our minds. My brothers and I arranged for a quiet little funeral this morning, an' halfway through, Mr. Williams comes in, and arrests 'im!"

"He arrested whom?" asked Holmes, leaning forward intently.

"My father!" she cried, and burst into renewed sobbing.

I turned to Holmes, horrified by this turn of events. "Surely that isn't legal," I muttered.

He frowned, and replied in a low voice, "There was a loophole a few decades ago which allowed it, but it has since been closed. But I suspect—well, it is better to say nothing until more facts come to light. This may prove a more complex case than it at first seems to be."


	17. Warm Hats for Cold Nights

**December 17: "Mrs. Hudson knits gifts for her tenants." (from mrspencil)**

* * *

It was one of the coldest and windiest winters on record. No matter how much wood she and her tenants threw in the fireplaces, or how many hot water bottles they took with them, or how many blankets they piled on, it was difficult to sleep.

Over the course of a few restless nights, Mrs. Hudson knitted two pairs of mittens for her sister. She enjoyed knitting, and when she had finished, she decided she out to make something else. She shivered. Then she knew what to make: two hats to keep her lodgers warm at night. She smiled and began working immediately. It took several nights to finish them both. Red would be for Mr. Holmes and blue for the Dr. Watson.

She delivered her gifts at dinner the next evening. "I know it's been horribly cold, dears," she said, "so I hope these make it a little more bearable."

The two gentlemen perked up at the sight of the warm articles.

"Thank you!" said the doctor, putting it on immediately. "It fits like a glove."

"I should hope it fits more like a hat," she replied with a chuckle. She turned to Holmes, who eyed his hat carefully. After a moment, he put it on and smiled. "I believe I shall be warmer tonight than I ever have been."


	18. Home Alone

**December 18: "Wiggins is home alone." (from mrspencil)**

* * *

Young Wiggins, age six, shivered and scooted a few inches closer to the fire. His mother said she would be back by five, but the clock on the wall told him that it was nearly six. He was cold and hungry and very alone.

There was a knock at the door. He scrambled to his feet, and peered through the window. A man stood on the doorstep. He was tall and looked angry. Wiggins ducked quietly away from the window and took several steps backward. There was another knock, then another. Then nothing. He gave a sigh of relief and returned to the fire.

Twenty minutes later there was another knock, this one quieter. He frowned and returned to the window. This time, there was a little boy on the stoop. He looked very cold. Wiggins decided to open the door.

"Hello," said Wiggins.

"Hello," said the boy. "My parents are gone for today. Can I come inside?"

Wiggins frowned. "I guess until your parents come back," he said, and let the lad inside. They sat side by side before the fire and Wiggins shared his blankets.

"My name is Bobby," said the boy. "What's yours?"

"Wiggins," he replied. "Pleased to meet you."

They would meet again later as Baker Street Irregulars, and Wiggins would become a lifelong friend to Bobby.


	19. A Bit of Randomness

**December 19: "Any non-modern-day AU." (from Kitschgeist)**

 **A/N: I feel like I should apologize in advance. I didn't have any good ideas, so I wrote this nonsense instead. Enjoy…?**

* * *

"Holmes, my head hurts."

Watson's voice was coming from somewhere, but Holmes' head hurt too badly to open my eyes. He felt a tug on my sleeve, groaned and opened them anyway.

A young girl with unfathomably long blonde hair stood before them, holding a pan.

"Is that Rapunzel?" said Watson.

"Is that a frying pan?" asked Holmes.

The girl leveled it at them, scowling.

Then, the window shattered and a dragon flew in, breathing fire everywhere. Holmes grabbed the frying pan out of her hands and threw it straight at the dragon's head. It groaned, and collapsed to the ground in the tower. A stern-faced man with a bow and arrow leapt in.

"Hey!" he shouted. "That was my job. Did this skinny guy with the big nose just kill Smaug?"

"I was gonna do it," pouted Rapunzel.

There was a series of strange noises, and a blue police call box materialized. The doors opened, and eight tiny reindeer pranced out, followed by the Grinch in a Santa hat.

"I have no idea what's going on here," he said.

"None of us do," said Watson. "Why'd you hit me with the frying pan though?"

"It seemed like the thing to do."

Watson sighed and shook his head.

"Now are you guys gonna get this dragon out of my bedroom?"


	20. Gift Exchange

**December 20: "Holmes brothers gift exchange." (from Book girl fan)**

* * *

"But we never have exchanged gifts at Christmas," said Holmes irritably, staring out the window of the cab. "Not since we were children."

"It's not too late to start," Watson replied. "It would be a kind gesture, especially after that scandal with the ambassador to Russia."

"Which was beyond my control," Holmes snapped.

"I know," Watson placated. "But it caused Mycroft quite a headache all the same."

"I suppose," Holmes replied. "Well, I'm not even certain what to get him."

"We're already buying chocolates for Mrs. Hudson," replied Watson. "Would that not be a suitable gift for him too?"

The younger Holmes frowned, then nodded. "Chocolate it is, then." They were purchased that very morning.

* * *

Mycroft appreciated the gift. He began appreciating it as soon as Sherlock left his office, and the chocolates were gone within the day. He decided he ought to return the favor. But what could Sherlock use?

Asloath as he was to disrupt his usual routine, he took a cab to a few shops after work and began browsing. A new magnifying glass? His brother had plenty. Chemical equipment? He wasn't sure what he might need. He eventually settled on a soft muffler; Sherlock was always cold.

* * *

"Thank you, brother mine," said Holmes. From then on, whenever temperature dropped, that was the muffler he would bring.


	21. Twinkle, Twinkle, Stolen Jewelry

**December 21: "Twinkle" (from Worldweilder)**

* * *

It was an ordinary Christmas ball. Mr. and Mrs. Watson were enjoying themselves. Mr. Sherlock Holmes was not. At least not until:

"My necklace!" a duchess cried.

At first, only the attention of those nearby was arrested, but a moment later there was another shout.

"Why, my ring is gone too!" exclaimed a middle-aged woman.

The orchestra screeched to a halt, and a moment of silence stretched over the crowd. Then came the pandemonium.

Watson looked round for his friend, but Holmes was already making his way toward the center of the crowd.

"Everyone calm down!" he shouted in his most commanding tone. Immediately, there was silence again. "Raise your hand if your jewelry was stolen."

A dozen hands went up, half of them near the back door. There were gasps all around.

"Remain calm, I shall return. Watson!" called Holmes, and dashed toward the door. The doctor followed suit, his wife at his heels.

The three flew onto the street, where several hansom cabs traveled to and fro. A block away, there was a twinkle of something in the gaslight as a dark figure disappeared into a cab.

"Driver!" Holmes called, stopping the nearest cab and evicting its current occupants, under protest. "Follow that cab!"

Watson and Mary piled in behind him, and their cab raced down the block.


	22. An Irregular Tradition

**December 22: "A magnificent feast" (from mrspencil)**

 **Mrs. Hudson's POV**

* * *

I'd never seen those street urchin boys' eyes so wide as I did when I gave them each a biscuit that first Christmas in 1881, and giving them a "Christmas bonus" at the tail end of December has been a tradition ever since. By 1891, the oldest ones had quite grown up and graduated from their Irregular duties, some to police work or manual labor, and a few, sadly, to less savory trades. With Mr. Holmes gone, and Dr. Watson long moved out, I barely saw those boys, but I ran into Wiggins, a constable now, in the street around Thanksgiving, and told him to get the word out that the tradition still stood. Christmas fell on a Friday this year, so I invited the boys over on the twenty-sixth.

It had been a long time since I baked for more than myself and Mrs. Turner, who stayed at times in the Doctor's old room, but I hadn't forgotten how to cook for a small army. The sight that met those boys' eyes Saturday evening had them as awestruck as those biscuits ten years before.

"Good heavens, Mrs. H!" cried Wiggins. "You've really outdone yourself this year."

I only smiled affectionately at the ragtag group of young men and boys. "Oh, I just enjoy doing a bit of Christmas baking."


	23. A Birthday Pudding

**December 23: "Don't you forget about me" (from Kitschgeist)**

* * *

"You've really outdone yourself this year, Mrs. Hudson," I said. It was my birthday, and without even asking, our wonderful landlady had prepared a meal of all my favorite foods.

"No trouble," replied Mrs. Hudson with a smile. "I'll go ahead and fetch dessert."

I looked to Holmes, eyebrows raised. Yes, even Holmes was eating today, perhaps to relieve me for this one day of worrying over his intermittent fasting.

"Good heavens, I'm nearly stuffed as it is!" I said.

The detective smiled. "I think I could take care of your portion."

"Don't you dare," I replied.

There was a ring at the bell, and a minute later, the maid showed Inspector Lestrade into the sitting room.

"Afternoon, Holmes," he greeted. "And happy birthday to you, Doctor."

I thanked him.

He continued: "I hate to call you two out today, but there's been another murder on Fleet Street. Same time and place as last week."

Mrs. Hudson returned, a beautiful pudding in hand. She looked to the Inspector and frowned. "I suppose you two will have to wait on dessert, then."

I sighed in spite of myself. It did look truly delicious.

Holmes chuckled. "Don't worry, old fellow, the dessert isn't going to forget about you in your absence."

I elbowed him in the ribs.

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Good luck, boys."


	24. Sleep Is For The Dead

**December 24: "Babysitting" (from mrspencil)**

* * *

When I came downstairs to the sitting room one Wednesday morning, Holmes deep in some pungent chemical analysis, his face flushed and shining with a sheen of sweat, his hair disheveled and unwashed. This was the third night he seemed to have foregone sleep, and it was wearing him down.

I sat down at the table and began to halfheartedly peruse the nearest newspaper to hand, The Times, casting glances at intervals to my manic friend. I wanted to inquire about his health, but I did not want to break his concentration. Mrs, Hudson had long since brought breakfast and I was halfway through my kippers when I got my chance.

In fact, Holmes broached the subject himself. "I assure you, I am fine, Doctor," he said.

"Still, I cannot help my concern," I replied. "Three sleepless nights is no way to treat a body, and you are beginning to look worse for the wear."

Holmes stood and grimaced. "I cannot stop now, not while I'm so close to answers."

I was afraid of that. When our good landlady returned, I pulled her aside. "I'm covering Johnson's practice this morning. Can you keep an eye on Holmes for me?"

"Of course I can," replied Mrs. Hudson with a kind smile. "But mind you don't forget: I'm your landlady, not your babysitter."


	25. Merry Christmas!

**December 25: "I can feel a headache coming." (from I'm Nova)**

 **A/N: Merry Christmas everybody!**

 **This can be read as a sequel to the last one, but it doesn't have to be.**

* * *

I was sprawled on the settee, my head pounding. I was still recovering from four sleepless nights last week, and did not intend to go anywhere or do anything this morning. But Watson and his tidings of good cheer had other ideas.

"Holmes," my friend said, pleading with his eyes. "It's Christmas."

I felt a pang of something, but pushed it aside. "Hmph."

"Would you go on a case feeling like this?" he asked.

Without a doubt.

I sighed. "Fine. We can go for a quick walk through Hyde Park, if that's what you really want, old fellow."

His face split into a wide grin, and I knew I had made the right decision.

"Have you got something strong I can use for a headache?" I asked.

He nodded, and a coffee-mixed-with-foul-powder later, we were off. I had to admit that the cool air was clearing my head, and the dusting of fluffy, white snow clinging to the streets, the buildings, and trees had a certain beauty to it.

We walked for some distance arm in arm in silence, and I reflected on the season and the dear friend I was so fortunate to have at my side.

I smiled in spite of myself. "Merry Christmas, my dear Watson."

The doctor grinned back. "Merry Christmas, old boy."


	26. An Embarrassing Mistake

**December 26: "Holmes does something equally embarrassing. Mycroft laughs." (from Winter Winks 221)**

 **A/N: I was getting error messages trying to post yesterday, but now FanFiction seems to be up and running again!**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was huddled in a jail cell. He was past seething; now he felt like a fool.

"You've really stepped in it this time, Mr. Holmes," greeted Inspector Lestrade. He didn't laugh, but Holmes thought he was holding back from it.

"I did manage to deduce that one for myself," Holmes replied.

The Inspector nodded. "Quite a case of mistaken identity."

"The Tsar's daughter was dressed like the swindling cad I've been trailing for weeks…" Holmes sighed and shook his head. "She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I didn't expect it."

"I suppose you didn't expect her to best you at fisticuffs, either." Lestrade gave a cough that sounded suspiciously like masked laughter.

Holmes said nothing.

"Ah! Look, a friend has arrived to bail you out."

Holmes gasped; Watson had been away with his wife, but perhaps he was back in London early?

It was Mycroft. "Well, well, Sherlock," he said with a smile.

"You took your time," the younger Holmes growled. "Enjoying the party, were we?"

"It took a while to smooth all those ruffled feathers," he replied. "I had to prevent an international incident."

Holmes snorted. "And sample more of the duchess's famous cake?"

"Perhaps." Mycroft burst into a hearty laugh. "But you are never going to live this one down, little brother."


	27. Music Box

**December 27: "A musical box." (from mrspencil)**

* * *

There was a music box at 221b. It was not on a table or shelf, or gathering dust in a corner. In fact, no one had ever seen it.

Well, no human had ever seen it.

It belonged to Basil and Dawson, also residents of Baker Street, but being mice, they occupied small quarters in a hole accessible via Holmes and Watson's sitting room. The music box was a gift from Olivia Flaversham and her father one Christmas, years after that first case. It was a little thing, even for a mouse, but it played a pleasant tune and Basil found it surprisingly soothing on sleepless nights.

At first, Holmes thought he was imagining the sweet sound, that his sleep-deprived brain invented it in a last-ditch attempt to make him sleep. (If so, it had worked.) But he heard it again a week later, while wide awake, and upon further inspection, realized its source, and smiled.

One night, while the music box was silent, Holmes took up his Stradivarius and recalled the tune. It took a couple attempts, but soon he could play it smoothly.

"That's a pleasant one," said Watson, descending the stairs to the sitting room. "Is it a composition of yours?"

Holmes shrugged and began playing the song again. He would keep this secret of Basil's.


	28. Don't Do Drugs, Kids

**December 28: "Holmes overdosed on the cocaine and goes loopy." (from Winter Winks 221)**

 **A/N: I was torn between making this lighthearted/silly and super serious, so here's a fic with some of both!**

* * *

I returned from my practice one evening, decidedly exhausted after ten straight hours of work. There was a nasty strain of influenza making its way about the city this week. I rang for a little cold supper and collapsed into my armchair by the fire.

"Hello, good old Watson," came Holmes' voice from the settee.

I jumped; I had not noticed that he was there.

"I've had a good day, but I observe you have been..." He frowned and waves an airy hand. "You've been the other thing."

A sinking feeling came upon me and I eyed my friend sternly. "Cocaine today, was it?"

"Pooh pooh, Doctor, I feel fine."

"Mhmm," I replied, and rose to do a little examination. His pupils were dilated to an almost disturbing extent and his heart rate was much higher than his usual.

"You increased your dosage," I said. It was a statement, not a question.

"Have you ever noticed how much better classical French music sounds after cocaine?"

"No," I replied. "Have you eaten today?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps. It hardly matters." He stared past me and began humming a jovial tune.

I grabbed him by the collar of his mouse-colored dressing gown. "It matters to me."

Something like fear or pain flitted across his features. "I suppose I could have a little bread."


	29. Return to Reichenbach

**December 29: "Return to Reichenbach." (from mrspencil)**

 **A/N: This is such a cool prompt. Since I've only given myself 221 words, I opted for a more introspective take than I first intended. Also, I was heavily influenced by the Granada version of Empty House, and the Greater Love trilogy by KCS, so credit where credit is due.**

* * *

"I never thought I would see this place again," I said, staring down at the thundering waterfall that had so impressed me that fateful day in '91, and haunted my dreams even after Holmes' return.

"I've wanted to come back for some time," Holmes replied quietly.

We stood arm in arm by the Reichenbach Falls, this time on a quiet holiday, not pursued across the continent by a criminal mastermind. In this frame of mind, I could appreciate the beauty of the place as much as the danger.

"I nearly called out to you, you know," my friend said quietly. "When you and those police fellows came back."

I didn't know quite what to say. "You did what you had to do."

Holmes nodded, and we continued along the path. He spoke again at length. "I knew I couldn't take you with me into exile, not with Mary waiting for you. And I'd already paid off that Swiss lad to bring you away from danger."

I stopped in my tracks. "You paid that boy? Not Moriarty?"

Holmes' eyes were downcast.

I laid a hand on his shoulder. "It's all forgiven," I said with a smile. "But it's starting to seem those stories I published are only half true, if that."

Holmes laughed. "I've been telling you so for years, old boy."


	30. Five Golden Rings!

**December 30: "Twelve Days of Christmas." (from Book girl fan)**

* * *

"I can't believe this," Lestrade muttered, his face in his hands. He leaned back in his office chair. "Mr. Holmes, I know you celebrate Christmas in unique ways, decorating the morgue and all, but this?" He brandished the paper the consulting detective had placed upon his desk. "This is too much. You're telling me a thief stole a partridge and a pair tree three days ago, two turtle doves two days ago, three French hens yesterday, and four calling birds today? What sort of nonsense is this?"

Sherlock Holmes threw up his arms. "I don't understand it anymore than you do. Where do you suppose they will strike next? Our only lead seems to be the common denominator of birds."

Lestrade stared. "You are joking, right? You are aware of the 'Twelve Days of Christmas', aren't you?"

Holmes nodded. "Naturally. The days between Christmas Day on the 25th of December, and Epiphany on January the 6th."

The Inspector leaned forward, an idea striking him. "Never mind that, actually. I believe I have a lead on this after all."

"Oh?" asked Holmes.

"Our man will aim higher than strange birds tomorrow," said Lestrade in a low voice.

"How much higher?" asked Holmes, leaning forward as well.

"Golden rings. Five of them," replied Lestrade. "And by this time tomorrow, he'll be behind bars."


	31. New Year's Resoluation

**December 31: "Renewal." (from Wordwielder)**

 **A/N: Thanks once again to Hades Lord of the Dead for putting this thing together, and everyone who read or reviewed my entries for this year!**

 **Happy New Year, folks!**

* * *

Holmes and I sat by the fire on New Year's Eve, a quiet pipe for Holmes and a stiff drink for me.

I heard Mrs. Hudson's light footsteps behind me. "Don't be so talkative, you two," she said with a chuckle. "There are just a few minutes till midnight."

"It's true," I replied.

"Any New Year's resolutions, gentlemen?" asked our landlady, a glass of red wine in her hand. She seated herself on the settee.

I nodded slowly. "I intend to give up gambling for good this year."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"It's done me any good," I replied with a shrug.

My friend nodded. "It is about time."

"What about you?" I asked. "What's your New Year's Resolution?"

Holmes took a long drag on his pipe. "I have been thinking about it, and this year, I've resolved to cause less of a strain on your nerves this year."

I smiled. "How thoughtful of you!"

Our landlady let out a quiet snort.

"Come now, Mrs. Hudson," I said, turning to face her. "He sounds like he's serious."

She shrugged. "Mr. Holmes sounded serious last year too."

Holmes smiled. "I didn't quite accomplish it, I'm afraid. I suppose that makes this less of a resolution and more of a renewal of one."

"Fair enough," I replied. "Happy New Year, old boy."


End file.
